imagine's blog

Written yesterday.

A year ago today I watched you as you walked on the other side of the road, dressed in black, trench coat sweeping out behind you, a ponytail trailing from your head that I longed to feel tangled in my fingers.

A year ago today you came over to my house for the first time to get a ride to the other boy's house. You came into my room and told me it was the most artistic thing you had seen in a long time, and you made me nervous in that furious adrenaline rush type of excitement.

A year ago today I brought you into my woods and you climbed into one of the trees and I speculated with my almost-14-year-old mind that you looked so much like a nymph, dressed in black with the brilliant green surrounding you and your dark eyes, piercing, so hypnotizing. We talked about songwriting, how not everything has to rhyme, and about an opera you wanted to write, but I was paying more attention to the shape of your lips than to the words they were forming.

1. I wish he would tell me "I love you" like she does, because I know she'll never stop, but eventually he'll forget how.

2. There is a side of you that I hate.

3. "I don't think I ever loved you as much as you loved me," was the worst insult anyone has ever, in my entire life, said to me.

4. They think that they're accepting, but the worst reaction to my sexual orientation came from my parents, and that's the biggest reason I don't trust them anymore.

5. I still have that piece of mint, almost a year old.

6. His accent, the warmth of his hand, and his pain were the only parts of him I was ever attracted to.

7. There's still so much of me that you don't understand.

Written last night at some ungodly hour.

They're back. The dreams.

It's those girls again, the ones who dance and glide their way into my sleep with their smooth curves and long hair that tangles itself around my limbs until I'm trapped in them and it's too late. Too late to do anything but smile and drink in their laughter like sweet syrup, let it coat my lips until they glisten and beg to be touched. They play music, the girls, creating notes with broken instruments that sound like freedom. They smell like patchouli and the ocean and they're beautiful like nature is beautiful, beautiful in their symmetry but also in their imperfections and their energy.

i.
The clothes sat there in the small cardboard box: three t-shirts and a pair of cargo shorts. Trapped deep inside their threads was the heavy incense that always lingers in the back of old hippie stores. The scent leaked over me, familiar, comforting.
Material: soft. My fingers rubbed over them. Smiled.
Each tag had the title of: man.

ii.
I can't hide anymore. When I first cut off 18 inches from my scalp, I thought it meant that I couldn't hide from them, the people I used to act for. No. It means that I can't hide from me.
When I look at old pictures of myself, that girl with the long hair doesn't seem to resemble me. She looks almost invisible with the locks reaching like vines to cover her eyes, her smile, her body.
She used those dark strands to cover everything. And they're finally gone.
I can't hide from me anymore.

iii.

i.
I'm sorry that your unicorn
had to dance
away from my
sanctuary of green,
taking with it
that breath of
magic that
smelled so much like home.

ii.
And with it,
your bird flew
away,
dressed in bare feet and
a patchwork dress,
melodies spinning out
of its mind, and
my hands grasping to
pick them up
before they fell away
too.

iii.
I'm sorry your eyes were
crying;
I'm sorry all I could do
was wrap my arms around
yours and
sigh.

iv.
Do you really think
that I didn't want to
understand? I do.
Why else would I have
pressed countless cranes
lightly into your palm, and
why else would I have
drowned myself in each
response?

v.
You're right about
words never being
enough.
There were things I wanted you
to know, but
my words weren't
the right way to
tell you.

vi.
You're beautiful.

As we drove
in the thick summer darkness
to her house,
there seemed to be a
separation between
her smile and her
eyes:
green,
wide,
tired.

Arms crossed over her
chest to:
protect?
numb?
hide?

I wanted to
crawl inside her house
with her,
sleep with my arms around
her waist to
save her from whatever
makes her look so

collapsed.

Maybe I'm
over-reacting,
maybe that's what
she'll tell me later, but,

I didn't want to leave her
alone.

I watch as he tucks the clothes
around his naked form,
letting material drape
loosely over his skin
and tangle with his
mind.

He loves the feel of boy-jeans and
t-shirts that
mask his curves, because
he loves to make me
look.

His brown hair is short, and
brushed messily away
from his face, so I can see
his eyes,
deep,
colored like
the earth.
Candlelight flickers in
their darkness.
How do I look? he asks me,
words unsure and
tripping over each other.
I just nod.

He smiles at me with
a question lingering on his mouth, and
his lips look stained with
sweet pomegranate from when
he bites them,
nervous, and
I wonder what they
would taste like.
Change?
Love?
Freedom?

Desperation?

I try to touch him,
make the connection, but
my lips just meet
cold glass,
and reality hits
as his features grow faint
with my condensation, and

both of us are
holding back tears
as I whisper,
You look beautiful,
darling.

i.
I wish you were
stronger.

You admitted that you're
weak,

but I know you'll do
nothing

about it.

ii.
I don't respect you any
more.

My body spinning out of
reality,
into love,
tangling dripping fingers with
heavy condensation, and
limbs stretching
to touch that
sweetness-from-the-sky.
Clouds breathing with me like
the static that
flows from your
energy

when we reach
connection.

Every drop seemed
to mirror your eyes.
They smelled like your
flesh, and
felt like your fingertips
as they slipped and
curved down
my face,
my spine,
the scars of kisses
left on my skin.

I drank them all
anyway,
but this time,

I wasn't dancing for
rain.

I was dancing
for you.

Wrapped in layers of
subtle androgyny
and threads spun with
condensation,
spiderwebs,
morning light,
(invisibility,)

I have never felt so
beautiful
in my entire
life.

And this time,

it has nothing
to do with
you.

Whether you realized it or not,
when my fingers
were crawling slowly across
the smoothness of your face,
touching and pulling at
your eyelids, their tips
were searching for
tears, and I

found them.

Distant, yes, like
misty ghosts,
but they were there,
hovering in the shadows
of your eyes, and

it took all my will
not to
break
down
too.

Really,
I didn't cut it off for
you,
for him,
not even for
the sake of change.

Simply,
it was annoying and
I've stopped caring what
they think so much,
and

soon,
it will be

shorter.

I wish you hadn't cried.

Watching him on stage in
all his glory,
all I can think is that
the guitar fits to his body
like a machine,
and I wonder:

what does he look like at
night,
writing his songs and
weak,
the melody still
raw,
cathartic,
still not quite
alive, and
I wonder:

why do I crave
pain in beauty
like I do?

She smashes windows, but
not for the sound of
glass surrendering to concrete, no,
she does it for that
feeling of
flowers thick with color and
exploding veins, falling
into her hands, a gift
from the beautiful
girls who wear
feathers in their
hair.

She laughs even with her
fingers.
They jitter as she
tap-taps the sound of life
into their
splinter-material hearts,
until they cry
screaming-flavored tears, and
remember what love is.

God-how-she-loves-that-stuff.
The rush.

Maybe that's what it's
all about,
anyway.

A poem I wrote at the conference, with the prompt: write about meeting your older self. This is meeting myself when she's close to death.

She was translucent with age.
White hair fell like silk
into her mouth and eyes, but
she left it there.

Skin lined, chapped,
lips cracked, sharp.
I wanted to kiss her.
I did, I wanted to touch her, but
she was sunken into herself,
and I didn't know how to
pull her out.

Even her eyes weren't
beautiful anymore.
They were dark and
full, yes, but
they were lost.
The pupils didn't work anymore,
they were separated from
the rest of the eyes, and
she couldn't focus.
I think her world was
too much like a
dream, and

she didn't recognize me.
She had forgotten my name.
Her fingers,
cold and sagging, traced
my face,

eyes so dry that when they
swiveled to stare at me,
I could hear them scratching
like flies whispering in
the sockets.

"Do you remember him?"
I asked her,
but she just stared, lost,